


Bedfellows

by ivyfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s02e12 Nightshifter, Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-18
Updated: 2007-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyfic/pseuds/ivyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hasn't always been able to chose who he does business with. Takes place shortly before "Nightshifter."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

> Agent Henrickson's line about white supremacists in "Nightshifter" just keeps bouncing around in my head. So here's a theory how he came to that conclusion.

Howard Fellowes had been on the FBI's radar for years. He was one of those second amendment crazies—touring the gun show circuit and shooting his mouth off. After 9/11 he'd gabbed on and on about how the pansy liberals in New York got what they deserved, how it had been worth a few hundred Americans dying to teach all them hippy senators to close the borders against immigrants. He'd even explained to anyone who'd listen exactly how to knock out the leaders of this country with weapons-grade anthrax. But as far as the FBI was concerned, he was just hot air. All talk, no action, no connections. Just some racist lowlife seriously overcompensating.

Then ATF caught Fellowes in the act of selling illegal firearms—heavy-duty stuff. Chucking him in jail wouldn't be worth much in itself, so they figured they'd turn him informant, get him to give up some of the bigger fish. His information was as useless as his politics, though, until he gave one name. A name that had a Special Agent Henrickson from the FBI swoop down and take over the case; a name that kicked Fellowes up from a worthless waste of flesh to a potential asset:

John Winchester.

~*~

"How long have you known John Winchester?" Henrickson sat in Fellowes's cell. He would have liked to do this in an interrogation room—do it properly—but Fellowes didn't need to be intimidated. If anything, Henrickson couldn't get him to shut up.

"We go way back. Way back. He keeps to himself mostly, but I know what he's doing."

"What's that?"

"Fighting the good fight. You know, the border patrol don't do nothin' to stop the spics from crossin' over into our country. They're coming across the border like rats from a sinking ship and you people sit on your ass and let them! And the Minute Men—don't get me started on those pansies. Militia, my ass. Just a bunch of pasty white boys sitting in the desert with loudspeakers. What do they do if a Mexican runs across the border? Nothin'. Say they're helping out the government, shit. They're just sitting out there drinkin' beer pretending to be heroes."

Henrickson cleared his throat. "John Winchester?"

"John," Fellowes got a look of admiration on his face. "John Winchester is a hero. A real one. You just look at him and you know it."

"Did he ever tell you what he was doing?"

"No, no, he was too smart for that. Cagey son of a bitch, you know? But I knew he was doing whatever was necessary to keep all red-blooded true Americans safe."

"And what was that?"

"Whatever was necessary."

"What were your dealings with him?"

"He came to me for guns, knives, flares, sometimes explosives. Mostly just shot guns, you know. Don't think he wanted to deal with your liberal-punk waiting period. You know what it says in the goddamn Constitution? We have a right to bear arms! That's right. Some lawyer up in Washington try to take that away but that is my goddamn God-given right!"

Henrickson shook his head. "It actually says, 'a well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.'"

"Damn right!"

"You are aware of the seriousness of the charges against you? And just how much the right information could help you out here?"

"Yeah."

"Then I suggest you stay on topic—exactly what has John Winchester bought from you?"

"It's not like a keep a ledger. He'd just come around once or twice a year, always pay in cash. Oh—there was one thing. He'd always get a few boxes of shot and a few boxes of salt rounds. Damnedest thing. Guess he just wanted to scare the spics sometimes. The women and kids, you know."

"When was the last time you spoke to him?"

"Must've been, oh, three years ago. Haven't seem much of him lately… kind of odd, that."

Henrickson made a pretense of shuffling through his papers. "John Winchester was killed in a car accident two months ago."

"That's a damn shame, a damn shame." Fellowes clutched his hand over his heart and raised his eyes heavenward. "So passes a true American hero. He was a true patriot." After a few moments, Fellowes looked back towards Henrickson. "Well, at least…"

"At least what?"

"At least he's got his son to carry on for him."

"His son?"

"Dean. That was his name. Dean. Had that light in his eyes, just like his daddy."

"What about John's other son, Sam?"

"Sam? Sam…" Fellowes looked like he was thinking. "Yeah, there was another boy. Real gutless fairy. Didn't like what his dad was doing; always hung back in the car. No grit, that boy. Waste for John to be saddled with that runt."

Henrickson filed that information away; if there was a division between the two brothers he could figure out how to exploit it.

"Dean I saw a few months after I last saw John," Fellowes continued. "I remember it cause he'd never come on his own before. Had a special order for me, took me a few days to fill it."

"What did he want?"

"Armor-piercing rounds."

Henrickson felt his face grow grim. "Cop killers," he muttered.

"Whole bunch of 'em," Fellowes said with a grin. "Guess you better watch your ass."

Dean Winchester, Henrickson thought. Raised by an ex-Marine, isolated, trained, warped by his father's racist crusade. And now it sounded like the son was even more dangerous than the father. A real monster. Good—those were the most fun to hunt.


End file.
